


Crushed Roses

by AngiePen



Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance, Stalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngiePen/pseuds/AngiePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Craig has a secret admirer, and some hopes (and fears) about who it might be.  He can't quite tell, though, and he's feeling more and more nervous as the unknown person's expressions of affection begin to get creepy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crushed Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msilverstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msilverstar/gifts).



> Written in 2008 for MSilverstar for Sweet Charity.
> 
> Thanks to Aleathiel for holding my hand through the end. :)

"Oi, Craig! Move it or you're walking!"

Sean's bellow filled Craig's trailer, even from where he was standing outside on the path. Craig winced just a bit and waved to him through the window. He called, "Hang on, just another minute!" but wasn't sure anyone had heard him. Craig could project to the back of a theater as well as anyone, but he was pretty sure Sean had figured out some way of infusing his voice with the sheer magnitude of his charisma. However he managed it, his voice had a presence all its own.

Sean waved back and Craig hoped that meant he'd heard, or at least understood.

Craig watched Sean stride up the path toward his car. It was illegally parked next to one of the tech trailers, but they'd be gone long before anyone got up the nerve to give Sean Bean a telling-off over parking.

They were getting ready to head off for dinner at Wally's before figuring out where to spend the rest of the evening. Craig liked Wally's for the first rate steaks, but even his familiarity with the area night spots wasn't enough to make him want to jump into the club debate. The Fellowship and Company was a weirdly eclectic group and no matter where they went, it seemed _someone_ was grumbling within an hour.

Dinner was always fun, though, and Craig didn't want to miss it. He turned back to his laptop and typed as fast as he could.

_\--is that it can be difficult to find someone who understands that an actor's work is migratory, both for filming and for promotion. A person who wants their partner to be home every night without fail is going to have a hard time of it. I always make it clear going in that there'll be times when I'm away because of my work, but even people who say at the start that they understand and it's all fine tend to change their minds when they find themselves living the reality of being alone for weeks on end._

**What's your favorite romantic date?**

Craig sighed and glanced out the window again, just in time to catch Dom pitching a... something bright blue at someone diving into the back of Sean's car. The blue thing exploded -- a water balloon! Sean's angry roar was audible all the way to Craig's trailer and inside, and he laughed before turning back to his work. They'd be a few minutes at least.

_Romantic is more a state of mind than a place or an activity. With the right person, even washing up after dinner can be romantic, and with the wrong person, all the candlelight and champagne in the world won't make the evening work. I have some favorite things to do, as everyone does, but they're really secondary to the person I'm doing them with._

Dodged _that_ one, he thought with a smirk.

**Any interesting plans for the future?**

_Right now I'm focusing on **Lord of the Rings.** We're having a great time and Peter's a brilliant director. And you can tell everyone who thinks he'll make a hash of **Rings** because they've only seen his zombie films that they should wait until they see the results, because if the films are half as magical as the filmING, they're going to have everyone up and applauding._

A little more positive pre-buzz never hurts, and it gives them something to think about besides my "future plans."

Craig skipped his usual read-over and hit the SEND button, then closed his laptop and stowed it away. He grabbed his jacket and left the bag; the trailers were secure, in the middle of a secure lot, and he wouldn't have any time to mess with it again until the next day anyway.

Sure enough, by the time he jogged up to Sean's car, Sean was still snarling at the Hobbits, who were arse-end-up in his car and frantically mopping and sopping with a towel and a couple of T-shirts.

"But Sean, it's just a rental!" whined... one of them, either Dom or Billy. Craig still couldn't quite tell them apart just by voice, and his view of them at that particular moment wasn't one he'd spent much time studying. They were cute arses, but the guys they were attached to were too young to press any of his buttons, even if Billy, at least, hadn't attached himself to Viggo long before Craig had been brought in.

"About time you showed up," Sean grouched. "If it hadn't been for these three splashing about, we'd have gone without you."

"But Sean, I didn't _do_ anything!" someone whined.

"Yer a Hobbit and that's good enough," Sean retorted.

Craig had to laugh, but he made some attempt to stifle it and ended up coughing instead.

Sean shot him a suspicious glare. "I don't suppose you put this lot up to it, delaying tactics or something?"

Before Craig had a chance to even sputter his innocence, all three Hobbits present had pounced and were shouting, "He did it!" "That's it exactly!" and "Craig put us up to it!" respectively. Two of them made the mistake of breaking off their clean-up job to grin and point, and Sean sent them both back to work with a smack upside the head of the one -- Billy, it turned out -- who was within his easy reach.

"Like I'd believe you lot over him! Hurry up with that -- I'm hungry!"

Both shirkers bent back to their tasks, but Billy grumbled, "I don't see what the problem is anyway. It's only water, and it's a sodding rental!"

"It's _my_ car and that's reason enough!" Sean glared down at the miscreants, then leaned back against the car with his arms crossed over his chest and gave Craig a wink.

Craig grinned back and tossed his jacket into the front through the open door beside Sean. Elijah protested that he'd already called shotgun, but Sean said it'd be a cold day in hell before he'd sit next to one of them and make himself a target for any misses or splatter, and the whole lot of them could sit in the back where at least they'd only muck about with each other.

That brought the expected protest, but Craig ignored them and leaned forward to whisper to Sean, "Shouldn't have said that -- bet they'll take it as a challenge and see just how annoying they can be from the back seat."

Sean grinned and whispered back, "They know better. And if they don't, they will soon enough."

"Hey, you're still here, brilliant!" Orlando came bouncing up, gave Sean a hug and Craig a kiss on the cheek, then dove into the Hobbit pile in the back. "Let's go!"

"Everything dry back there?" Sean called. He started walking around to the driver's side, though, so Craig figured he was just winding them up. He slid into the front in a chorus of "Yes, Sean!"

"If not, they'll sop it up with their trousers," Craig pointed out.

"Just what are we sopping up?" Orlando asked, a suspicious note in his voice. "It better not be anything disgusting."

"Well, better not talk about it, then," said Dom. Craig glanced back and saw the Hobbits swapping grins.

They'd hardly even got off the lot before the back seat had erupted into a full-on battle. Craig's ears were aching nearly as much as his spine, after a couple of knees had hit the back of his seat hard enough to leave impressions. Sean bellowed threats about stopping the car and leaving the lot of them in a heap by the side of the road, and Craig settled back in his seat and grinned. It was amazing how relaxing it was to be in the middle of a Fellowship brangle, but it reminded him of his family and he could feel the knots of tension which always formed when he was concentrating on character and deadline and publicity loosen and fade. He had an early call the next morning, but the evening was going to be grand, even if it had to be short.

 

Sean shouted something, but even _his_ voice couldn't quite penetrate the bass-dense air across the width of the tiny tables the club set out, barely large enough for its patrons to set their drinks.

"What?!" Craig shouted as loudly as he could, but in reality he was just hoping Sean could read his lips. Or just guess, from the fact that Sean couldn't hear _him,_ what he'd said.

Sean leaned forward until his lips were brushing the hair at Craig's temple and hollered, "What was it--? Oh, bugger it! Let's go!"

Craig nodded with great enthusiasm, drained his beer and stood up to follow Sean out the door. Billy and Viggo had vanished earlier, Dom and Orlando were throwing themselves around the dance floor, Miranda and Karl were at the bar challenging each other in some contest involving drinks Craig had never heard of, and Elijah was trying to talk his way into the DJ's booth. None of them would notice if he and Sean left, Craig was sure.

Even after the heavy doors had closed behind them and they were breathing the cold, clean air out on the street, the music was still as loud as it was in most normal clubs -- places _Craig_ thought of as normal, at any rate. They'd made the mistake of letting Elijah pick where to go after dinner. Elijah had whined about how Sean had bawled him out earlier when he hadn't even done anything, hadn't thrown the water balloon nor even been the one it was thrown at, and had finally managed to get everyone at the table to agree that he was owed some sort of restitution, although in Sean's case it'd been more a matter of "All right, all right, just shut it already!" than any true repentance over his behavior.

"I said--!" Sean yelled, then stopped. He blinked, then shook his head and said in a more normal tone, "I said, what were you doing earlier? Decided to start writing your own scripts or what?"

Craig shook his head. "No, nothing so interesting, really. The president of my fan club -- Toby Atwater -- sent me a list of interview questions and I promised I'd get them back to him this evening. Then we decided to go out and I knew I had to get 'em done before we left. I was sure I'd have time, with the Hobbits taking forever in Feet and all, but Toby's very enthusiastic and he just went on and on and on, you know?"

"You have a fan club?"

It was obvious right away that Sean was surprised at what'd come out of his mouth. The look on his face was aghast for a moment, then a wince and a head-shake. Craig _was_ hurt, and even a little offended, but he set his jaw, determined not to show it. After all, who was Guy Warner compared with Richard Sharpe, much less Double-Oh-Six?

"I'm sorry, lad, I didn't mean it like that. It's just... I mean, I have a couple of 'em about, you know? But I don't have much to do with 'em. Jacey has me autograph pictures or a T-shirt occasionally for them to use in a raffle or some such. I did an interview for their newsletter once, but it all went through Jacey and I've hardly ever exchanged two words with any of the members."

"It's all right, I understand." Craig made a throwing-away motion and managed a smile, but Sean's halting explanation had only emphasized the huge gap between them. The atmosphere around the set was so relaxed, so close, that he'd forgotten just with whom he was working. Sean, the two Sir Ians, Cate and Christopher, even Elijah, were all much better known around the world than Craig expected to ever be. On some shoots that difference in status would've been continually underscored, but on Rings it'd all but vanished. Just as well to remember it, really.

"It's one of the good things about being a decent-sized fish in this very small pond," he said. He grinned and tried to keep his voice light while making a circling motion with one hand to indicate New Zealand in general. "Being somewhat available to the fans doesn't mean ten million e-mails in my queue, you know?"

Sean nodded and gave him a wry smile, but didn't quite meet Craig's eyes. "Aye, that makes sense. And I reckon they really appreciate it, yeah?"

Craig nodded and said, "Yes, I suppose. I mean, they seem to -- there's a lot of enthusiasm when I post a note to their web site or drop in on a discussion or do something like this interview." He tried to relax but couldn't manage it, and looked up and down the street for something distracting, someplace else to go or just something to comment on.

It wasn't too terribly late -- just coming up on eleven -- but even urban New Zealand didn't have all that much of a night life on a Wednesday evening and the only other things open within the block or so Craig could see were a liquor store and a small, all-night market. Neither one suggested any sort of entertainment.

Well, actually the liquor store suggested getting a bottle of something nice and going back to his place, but much as... well, much as he'd love to be taking Sean Bean back to his place for a drink and whatever, he doubted very much that Sean would be up with the idea.

"I really don't want to go back in there -- a few more minutes and my eardrums would've imploded and then Haldir wouldn't be able to shoot Gimli in the dark anymore." It was a lame joke, but the best he could do under the circumstances. "I think I'm going to head back to mine and get some decent sleep for once. I have a six ayem call, so I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll drive you home," Sean offered, but Craig shook his head.

"I'm in the opposite direction. I'll get a cab and it'll just be a few minutes. Tell the others good night for me?"

Sean said, "Aye, I will," and gave him a nod as he turned and walked down the street. Not like Craig had expected him to protest or anything, so that was that.

 

The next day, early in the morning while Craig was still in makeup getting his wig done, a huge vase of roses arrived, delivered by a young PA. She beamed him a smile and set them down on the counter to one side of his mirror and asked, "So, is it your birthday, then?"

"No, not until next spring, nearly summer." He leaned forward to take a sniff, but got a light smack on one shoulder from his hairdresser and settled back into his chair. "Read the card for me?"

The PA opened it up with some enthusiasm and scanned it, then her smile widened and she gave him a wink. "Anonymous! A secret admirer, then?"

"Must be," Craig agreed. "Let's see, that narrows it down to any one of the straight women or gay men in my fan club, which would be about ninety percent of the total." He grinned and winked back at her. "I hope it's one of the men."

She laughed and said, "I hope so too, then." She gave him an odd look for a moment, then blushed and bustled away, calling, "You're due on set in forty minutes," over her shoulder.

Craig's shoulders shook with laughter before he relaxed into thought, with only enough of his attention on what was going on around him to turn his head or tilt his chin when Amy needed him to. He was actually wondering whether Sean hadn't sent the flowers. Red roses were a bit too romantic for the situation, but he _had_ seemed to genuinely regret what he'd said and to feel bad about it as soon as he'd said it. And he might've just asked some assistant to send Craig flowers and they'd chosen red roses just because that was the first thing anyone thought of when they went to send flowers. It was, wasn't it? Especially women? Most of the assistants around the place were female, so it could be no more than that.

It was probably only that and nothing more, just an awkward apology for an awkward situation.

Although if it was, then why not sign the card? An oversight? A mistake at the florist's?

It _was_ odd. Sean would've had them sign his name, if it'd been meant as an apology -- it rather lost its impact without a name on it.

Maybe it _wasn't_ meant as an apology. So long as Craig was speculating, fantasizing really, maybe it was something else. He wouldn't at all mind if Sean Bean -- gorgeous, blond Sean Bean, with that low, rough-silk voice that was enough to bring a man off without even a touch -- had sent him red roses for the more usual reason. Within the safe privacy of his own head, Craig felt free to ponder that possibility, to entertain and indulge that particular, impossible possibility, of Sean Bean actually fancying him. Of Sean Bean being bisexual in the first place _and_ fancying Craig Parker, fair-to-middling actor and largish fish in a very small local pond.

 

The fantasy lingered even after Craig's wig had been added to his ears and all the more usual makeup procedures, and everything was touched up and perfected. That must've been why Craig spent more time that day watching Sean than he could really account for.

Not that Sean wasn't worth watching, but Craig's mindset had changed somehow, and there was something, some aura about Sean, the way he moved or spoke or looked or just existed that was pinging Craig's gaydar. It was a tiny, faint whisper of a ping, but it was there anyway.

Of course, something that faint was likely born out of Craig's own fancies. Not that he hadn't known plenty of gay men in the past who'd scored high and then some on the masculinity scale, but if Sean did have any tendencies in that direction, he'd been damned discreet about it.

Not that that was surprising, given who he was and what sorts of roles he was known for. It was damned silly, but the fact was that the movie-watching audience wasn't ready for a glowering villain or a tough action hero who liked to suck cock. Or even one who liked to get his own cock sucked by another man. At least, that was what the studios and the distributors and the other suits who ran the business infrastructure of the movie industry believed, and so long as they were writing the checks, what they believed was gospel.

So all right, assume that Gay Sean or Bi Sean would behave exactly like Straight Sean, at least when anyone was looking. The trick, then, was to watch how he behaved when no one was looking. No one else, at least.

Sure, I'll get right on that, Craig thought with a smirk. I'll just use my super-secret-agent skills and... oh, right. Damn.

"Glad _someone's_ in a good mood." Viggo came strolling up and leaned against the fake Mallorn tree, next to where Craig had propped himself in between takes.

Craig peered over to where the assistant director and the two lighting techs were still at it. The gestures had grown larger and more swooping, so with any luck they'd be coming to some kind of conclusion soon. He shrugged and said, "I was thinking about something else, actually. I just zone out during wait times -- I figure someone will let me know when I need to actually do some work again."

Viggo gave him a crooked grin and nodded. "I've prolly done a couple of books of poetry on some producer's dime."

"I should probably take up something like that. Small and portable but creative, keep my brain engaged when I'm stuck in limbo." Craig usually found a book or a magazine when the wait times got ridiculously long, but something productive as well as interesting sounded, well, interesting.

"Or you could go play tig with the kids and provide entertainment for the rest of us," Viggo suggested. His voice was low and casual but his smile was evil.

Craig turned and looked in the direction Viggo'd been watching and saw most of the Hobbits and Orlando hurtling across the set in a chaotic pack, with Elijah pelting along behind. Craig could just hear him shouting something aggrieved-sounding about a rule, and Dominic shouted something back about Thursdays.

"It's really a fun game." Viggo gave Craig a pat on the shoulder which Craig assumed was meant to be encouraging. "Elijah's just not very good at it. You'd pick up the rules in no time."

Craig laughed and smacked Viggo's hand away. "Don't even try it, Ranger. I hadn't been on the lot for twenty-four hours before I heard the 'tig' story -- you won't get me to join Elijah as the sucker in _that_ prank."

"Damn." Viggo gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.

"Well, you can make it up to me for your dastardly attempt to push me into the tig morass by answering a question." Craig turned and leaned one shoulder against the mallorn tree, with his arms crossed and one foot scuffing up the packed dirt. It'd struck him that Viggo could be a good person to talk to about all this... stuff, but he didn't know the man all that well and he was just hoping Viggo wouldn't be offended. But then, Viggo didn't seem to be the easily-offended sort in general, very intense about his work but generally mellow seeming, so....

"Oh? What's up?" Viggo turned to face him, his expression shifting to serious.

"I just... I mean, I'm sorry if this is too... too whatever, but...." Craig watched the roiling mass of Hobbits-and-Orli over Viggo's shoulder for a moment, then forced himself to look the other man in the eye. "Tell me if it's none of my business -- I mean, I _know_ it's none of my business, but if it's too personal or anything -- but I was just wondering how you manage, and how it's affected you, or if it has at all, and how you decided to be more open about it?"

Viggo blinked, then chuckled and scratched at his wig. "Might help if I knew what 'it' was?"

Craig felt his face heating up and he leaned over and bonked his head against the tree trunk a couple of times. "Sorry. I always get stupid when I'm embarassed. I mean, well, with Billy and all?"

"You mean being bi?" Viggo's question was even and straightforward and he didn't look upset or offended or even confused anymore, which was really good because Craig had been half expecting to get punched, or at least have Viggo stalk off in disgust, mellow or no. "I'm really not all that open about it, actually. I mean, pretty much everyone here knows, but this is _here,_ on the other side of the planet from where I live and where most of my work is. I don't work at hiding it, but I prefer to keep private _private_ and it's no one else's business."

"But you're a well-known actor," Craig protested. "Most of the crew and half the cast here might be Kiwis and Aussies, but the other half isn't and word'll get around. Couldn't it affect your career?"

Viggo shrugged. "Probably not. I'm really _not_ all that well known. I've been in some popular movies but no one remembers _me."_ He grinned and shrugged again. "Not complaining. It's like Alec Guinness always said, that if the audience remembers you instead of your character, you haven't done your job. He was pretty pissed about Star Wars making him a household name, from what I hear."

Craig laughed. "I'll wager he was. But this is likely to be your Star Wars -- Aragorn is at least as big a part in Rings as Obi-Wan was in Star Wars. Probably bigger. You're the king, not just the mentor, and you don't get killed off in the first movie. And once people notice you, you know what the gossip gets like."

Viggo shrugged again. "If that happens then I'll deal with it. It's not like acting is my main thing anyway -- it just pays for everything else. Figure, if Rings is that huge then I'll be able to afford to dump the acting if I have to, or if it dumps me. And if it's not then it's not and it's not an issue."

Craig untangled that last bit, then nodded. "But if you didn't have your other things to fall back on...?"

"Then I'd manage." Viggo gave him a curious look and asked, "What's up? It's not like you're struggling with whether or not to come out, unless you're _really_ bad at keeping secrets."

"What? Oh, no, not me! I was wondering about someone else. My career's gone fine and no one seems to care. But that's me, and here, and it'd be different for someone else. Someone better known, someone who plays different kinds of characters than I do...."

"Someone who's made a decent rep playing soldiers and secret agents?" suggested Viggo.

"Umm, maybe. I mean, yeah. Yes." Craig felt himself blushing again and looked down, focusing his gaze on a dirt stain splotched across Aragorn's leather tunic.

"Hey." Viggo's hand, half supple leather and half warm skin, cupped Craig's jaw and tilted his face back up. "Nothing to be ashamed of. Sean's a good looking man. I prefer mine wiry and flexible--" and he gave Craig a wink there, "--but Sean's put together pretty well and he's got the presence to sweep you up with just his aura, when he turns it on, you know?"

"Umm, yes. I mean... yeah, I know." Craig couldn't help thinking that Viggo had a presence of his own when he decided to use it, but Sean's was definitely something special.

Viggo let his hand drop and said, "So, what's the worst that can happen?"

"Well, I could proposition him and he could break my jaw," Craig offered. "Makeup can manage a black eye, and camera angles could work around a broken nose, but I couldn't say my lines with a broken jaw so I suppose that'd be the worst."

Viggo's response was a loud, manic giggle that drew curious looks from everyone in earshot. "You can hope he loves you for your sense of humor, anyway."

"Thanks," Craig said, trying to ignore the fact that the whole set was staring. "That's helpful -- I'll keep it in mind."

"Hey, since you've thought of it, you know to be ready to duck, right?"

"True. I'll try to remember that too."

"Oi, you two! You working today?"

Craig looked over in the direction of the set and saw that the lighting had been reworked to everyone's satisfaction -- or at least, the AD was talking to someone on her headset now and the techs had vanished -- and Sean was standing a dozen paces away, scowling at the two of them.

"Let's get this done, then, or something else'll fall off and we'll end up doing the same four lines tomorrow." Sean turned and stomped off while shouldering his heavy, plywood shield. He'd sounded grumpy and Craig couldn't really blame him; they were all used to standing around, but it'd been excessive that afternoon and the thought of doing the same thing the next day didn't thrill him either.

"There you go," said Viggo with a smirk. "He's jealous already. Hang around with me a while longer and he'll be dragging you away by the hair."

Craig rolled his eyes and said, "Oh, obviously. Should've thought of that before -- I'm sure the sight of me chatting with a colleague, especially one who already has a boyfriend, would be enough to send any straight man moaning after my adorably sexy self." Craig pushed away from the mallorn tree and headed over toward the edge of the woods set, which was starting to buzz once more.

Viggo snorted and followed him, saying, "If you were all that sure he was straight, we wouldn't have had this conversation."

Craig didn't answer because, after all, Viggo was right.

 

They did get the shot, and the next one, and Craig was in a much better mood by the time he was settled into his makeup chair getting de-elfed. He had his laptop and was running through his e-mail. Among the usual spam and the more welcome notes from fans, there was a letter from Toby, thanking him for the interview and letting him know that he'd be in Wellington for the next few days and would he like to get together? Toby offered to take him to the Langham Pub -- one of Craig's favorite places and of course Toby knew that -- that night, Toby's treat.

That night wouldn't do, since they'd decided to get pizza and watch a movie at Viggo's place, but Craig glanced up at the schedule for the next couple of days, taped to the corner of his mirror. They were supposed to wrap up early (well, relatively early) on Saturday, so that'd probably do it. Craig typed out his regrets for that night, but suggested Saturday, at eight just to be safe, and sent it.

It wasn't so bad being in a small pond. He could answer all his fan mail, and let a fan take him to dinner occasionally. There were a few wankers of course, there always were, but for the most part the people who followed his career were politely enthusiastic. He enjoyed hanging out with them when he had the time, and they seemed to enjoy it just as much, so what else was there to wish for?

 

Later that evening, just short of midnight, Craig was wishing for nothing more than a warm bed. He was full of pizza -- sausage and pepper -- and just enough beer to be feeling relaxed and mellow. He fished his key out of his pocket and headed up the steps toward the door, then almost fell when he stepped on something squishy-crunchy -- something which definitely didn't belong on his front stoop.

Nothing had yelped so it wasn't an animal. Not a live one, at least. Craig shuddered and managed to reach over whatever it was and get the door open and the light on. Once the stoop was lit, it was obvious what he'd stepped on -- more roses.

Another bouquet of blood-red roses, a heap of at least twenty, lay scattered and crushed in front of his door.

At first he thought that maybe they'd been delivered, left at the door, and he'd kicked them over in the dark. He didn't remember kicking, only stepping, but he hadn't exactly been paying close attention. There were no broken vase shards around, though, nor even a cracked plastic bowl.

Maybe someone had left the bouquet on his stoop, then. Maybe it'd been left in the daytime, and whoever'd delivered it hadn't thought that he mightn't be back until after dark.

Although it _was_ the middle of winter and the sun set early.

Craig tried to pick up the bouquet but it was all in pieces. There was a ragged, dirty loop of ribbon off to one side, and most of the stems were broken. All the flowers were crushed, which was odd. He'd only stepped on them once and his foot was nowhere near large enough to crush twenty-some roses with one tread.

Something icy cold slithered through him, making him shiver. Craig had an image in his mind of someone stomping on the bouquet -- someone angry, someone who meant him to know that they were angry.

He looked up suddenly and peered around into the darkness. The light shining out the door had ruined his night vision, though, and there weren't enough lamps on the street to melt the shadows around his house and through the yards. Whoever'd destroyed the roses and left them there for him to find could well be hiding out there somewhere, watching.

Craig kicked the sweet-scented wreckage off his stoop and ducked inside, then locked the door. It took two tries because his hands were shaking.

Who did it? All he could think about was who'd done it, who'd brought the roses and who'd stomped them to pieces on his doorstep. Was it a joke? It didn't feel like a joke. Craig could feel the adrenaline racing through his body, pumped by quick heartbeats and short breaths. He felt like running away or hitting something. He felt perfectly sober and wished he wasn't.

He paced from his livingroom to the kitchen and back, needing to move, to do something with the panic energy.

Who?

Could it have been the same person who'd sent him the roses that morning? Two anonymous flower deliveries in one day from two different people sounded like an impossible coincidence; it _had_ to have been the same person.

But who?

He'd been thinking about Sean that morning, but that was just a fancy, a wish.

A wish that Sean might actually be interested in him, might want to apologize for what he'd said the night before, might feel too unsure of his feelings for Craig to just say sorry.

It was just a fantasy, nothing he'd actually believed might be the case. And when Viggo'd teased him that afternoon about Sean being jealous, that'd been _just_ teasing; he hadn't meant it either.

He hadn't, had he?

Craig remembered Sean's scowling face, the way he'd snapped at them both, then turned around and stomped off.

That'd just been the usual grumpy impatience everyone felt when shooting was delayed, though. They'd gone through eight takes with one thing or another not quite right, then the AD had decided the lights needed to be reset and it'd taken another long discussion to figure out just how to achieve the effect she'd wanted. Everyone had been grumpy and impatient after that, no matter that it was the sort of thing that happened all the time. That's all it'd been; Sean had been annoyed at the thought that they might not be able to finish the schedule that day and have to go long, or work Sunday. No one was pleased when that happened.

But then he hadn't come to Viggo's with everyone else. He'd been meant to, but he'd sent word with Marton that he wasn't going to make it after all, something about wanting to call his daughters before they left for school.

Craig could understand that. He had nieces and a nephew he was fond of, and he knew his brothers would want to take every chance to call them if they had to go away for months at a time.

That's all it was.

Sean hadn't been the one to send the flowers, either time. It'd just been a fancy, something Craig could enjoy imagining through the day. Now, though, this was different. Someone had some sort of grudge against him, who knew why? And bad enough when it'd just been the flowers sent to the set -- the flowers on his stoop meant whoever it was knew where he lived.

He lay awake late into the night, trying to convince himself that he was overreacting.

 

The next day, wigged and eared and costumed, Craig was sitting in the craft services tent with yet another cup of coffee. It'd taken all his determination to get through the morning's scene; luckily he'd had no lines himself and had only had to stride along in the background projecting ancient, wise arrogance.

He'd managed until the scene wrapped and he was dismissed. He'd caught a couple of hours of nap in the trailer and had another twenty minutes to get down as much coffee as he could manage before he was needed again for a Lothlorien scene. Again, no lines, but the Marchwarden wasn't allowed to look like he was about to fall asleep on his feet.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder and Viggo asked, "How's it going?" He sat down next to Craig and got a good look at him, then frowned. "Seriously, how're you doing? You look half-dead."

"Thank you so much." Craig saluted the ranger with his coffee cup, then took another sip.

"Did you get home all right? You didn't drink enough to still be hung over, not at one-thirty in the afternoon."

Craig shook his head. He looked up into Viggo's worried blue eyes, then glanced around. A clot of Hobbits was harassing Cate on the other side of the tent and the other cast and crew scattered around were watching them, doubtless waiting for the boys to get their comeuppance as soon as Cate had had enough.

He leaned closer to Viggo and murmured, "Someone left me flowers last night. At home, on my front stoop. Dropped them off and stomped them to pieces, left them for me to find."

"The hell. Same person as sent you the flowers here yesterday?"

Figured that'd gotten around. Craig shrugged. "I don't know. It seems like it'd have to be -- two anonymous bouquets in one day?" He took another sip of his coffee and stared down at the table. "I know it's nothing, probably nothing. Nothing to get all in a fret about. I can't seem to calm down, though. It's got me all twitchy and I didn't sleep very well."

"Don't blame you. It might be someone playing a joke or it might be some nut trying to scrape up his courage"

"Oh, thank you so _very_ much. I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel." Craig turned to glare at Viggo, who just shrugged.

"Better to think about it, figure out what you want to do," Viggo said, sounding perfectly calm and not at all apologetic. But then, he lived in the States where there were nuts and psychos under every rock. He was probably used to that sort of thing, but Craig wasn't.

"What I want to do is move house and get a new, unlisted phone number. Aside from being a bit of an overreaction, though, whoever it is knows where I work and could just follow me home some evening and I'd be back where I am now."

"Only with all your stuff in boxes and missing all your pot lids and lampshades."

Craig had to laugh at that. "Exactly. So I suppose the next thing to do is figure out who it might be, except I have no idea how to do that."

"It could be anyone," Viggo agreed. "Most fans are great, but some are just seriously whacked, and they make up for all the others. Or it might not even be a fan -- could be crew, or some other actor who wanted to play Haldir, or it could be something completely personal and not attached to your job at all."

A face floated up out of the back of Craig's mind. He shook his head and looked down into his coffee cup.

"What? That looked like a thought."

"I...." Craig glanced around again, then leaned closer and murmured, "It's ridiculous, but I just.... I mean, I was thinking, yesterday, and you were too, or you seemed to be, or maybe you were just joking, but I couldn't help wondering--" Craig stuttered to a stop and looked away. It was just too ridiculous but he couldn't help thinking about it.

Viggo blinked, then got an "Oh" look on his face. He said, "I don't think..." then stopped and thought. He started over and said, "I wouldn't think so. I mean, anyone can do anything under the right circumstances, or the wrong ones, but I think if Sean were really pissed off, he'd step right up and yell at you, or put his fist through a wall or something. He doesn't seem like the anonymous-stomped-roses kind of guy."

"No, of course not." Craig drew rings around the rim of his coffee cup with one finger. "Except that you thought of him right off too, without my specifying."

Viggo sighed and scratched his gooped-up wig. "Okay, look, I do think he has a thing for you. Interested, at least. And he didn't look all that happy when we were messing around yesterday and I don't think it was just 'cause of the lighting delays."

"Maybe." Craig was sitting in the middle between two thoughts, unwilling to approach either one of them. One was the idea that Sean might actually be interested in him in _that_ way, because it seemed so incredibly unlikely and he wasn't that lucky. The other was the idea that Sean was the one who'd sent him roses -- both bouquets -- and that he was angry and might do something else just as unexpected next time. He couldn't quite convince himself that the first thought was right, but neither could he quite convince himself that the second thought was wrong. But the second thought _couldn't_ be right unless the first one was too, so....

He slugged down the last of his coffee and shoved the cup aside. "I don't know. I don't know what to think or what to do."

"Well, say it's not Sean. Most likely possibility is that it's some fan, right? Have you gotten any weird fan letters lately, or a lot of letters from one person?"

"No, nothing unusual." Craig thought for a moment, then straightened up. "I could ask Toby, though. President of my fan club -- he's the moderator of the club's forum online, and they have meetings once a month or so. If anyone's been acting a bit mental, he might've noticed."

"There you go." Viggo nodded and gave him a cockeyed grin. "Talk to your guy, see what's going on on that side of the fence. Maybe go to a meeting yourself, see if any crazies try to wrap you in duct tape...?"

Craig gave Viggo, who was snickering madly, an elbow in the ribs and said, "Maybe I should take you along? Like recognizes like, right?" He was smiling, though, and did feel a little better. Just having a plan, something to _do,_ seemed to help.

Not finding any nasty or frightening surprises when he got home helped even more.

 

Talking to Viggo the previous afternoon and coming up with some sort of plan, no matter how vague, had helped Craig drag his thoughts off the wildly spinning hamster-wheel they'd been stuck on, but once he'd been able to focus on what was going on around him, what he saw hadn't made him feel all that much better, and he'd had all night (well, most of the night, before he'd finally dropped off to sleep) to pick it all apart and worry over it.

Contributing to the problem, of course, was the fact that he didn't know whether what he was seeing in the people around him was real, or reasonable, or whether he was just imagining all sorts of rubbish out of fear and paranoia. Was it even paranoia if you were able to wonder whether you were just paranoid?

There was Amy, for example. She was his hairdresser and he spent far too much not-quite-awake time every morning under her hands. She was friendly and always had a smile for him, but maybe it was a little _too_ wide? She knew he was gay, after all -- everyone did. So why did she refer to him as "her" Elf? She'd always referred to him that way, when talking to him or when talking about him to someone else, and it'd never bothered him before. But he'd never before had to wonder whether there was someone in the cast or crew who might be feeling a little overly possessive.

Or there was Marla, the PA who'd brought in that first bouquet of roses on Thursday. (Which was only forty-eight hours ago and that was a shock because it felt like it'd been at least a week and more likely two.) He'd joked around a little about hoping it was one of the _men_ in his fan club who'd sent the roses, and she'd laughed and agreed but that'd been a really strange expression on her face for just a moment after. Not really a _bad_ expression -- it hadn't seemed angry or condemning or distasteful or anything of that sort -- but still it was weird. Might she have issues with him being gay?

Craig had images taking over his mind of some woman he knew thinking that his being gay was wrong or immoral or whatever, becoming obsessed with him and believing that she could somehow "cure" him, if only she could get close to him. Might sending him flowers have been a first step in an attempt to woo him or seduce him? And when he hadn't picked up on it, or had missed some other clue, she'd gotten angry, leading to the crushed roses on his porch?

It seemed a little... fast, for someone to be getting that angry that suddenly. After all, a first overture in the morning and an angry break-up that same evening?

Although maybe the roses _hadn't_ been the first overture. Maybe he'd missed other signs. Craig was friendly, and affectionate with people he knew even casually; he'd had people misunderstand a smile or a hug or a kiss on the cheek before. Someone might've been conducting the first stages of what they thought was a courtship or seduction or whatever under Craig's oblivious nose, assuming he was following along when he'd been unaware there was even a path to be following.

Craig groaned to himself. It could be anyone, really. Or it could be nobody. The first bunch of flowers could've been from a random fan who'd been too shy to sign their name, and the second bunch could've been from someone playing a prank, and them both showing up within twelve hours of each other might've been just a crazy coincidence.

It'd be great to be able to believe that, anyway.

 

During yet another period where all the actors were sitting around (or ducking out for a smoke, or dashing to the bog, or chasing each other with water balloons they'd gotten from who-knew-where), Sean sauntered up, leaned one shoulder against Craig's favorite Mallorn tree and said, "So, want to go get a bite and a few pints after we wrap?"

Craig opened his mouth but nothing came out for a few seconds while his brain was fully occupied processing the fact that Sean might've actually asked him out, sort of. And of course Murphy was looking out for him as always, because it was Saturday and he had a committment. Fuck.

He finally managed to say, "I'd love to, really," but his tone was apologetic and he could see Sean's expression shift over to a neutral, whatever, don't-care-anyway mask even before the "No" made it out. Craig hurried on with, "I wish I could but one of my fans is in town and asked me to dinner and I promised. It'd be rude to duck out on him now and I couldn't do that to him, not after agreeing." The "him" made the little crease between Sean's eyebrows deepen just the slightest bit, and Craig found himself talking even faster: "It's the president of my fan club -- the one I did the interview with? -- he probably has some more questions for me, wants something new to write up for the web site--"

"That's fine," Sean said, interrupting him just as Craig was about to run out of breath. "Just thought you might want to relax a bit, being we've tomorrow off and all."

Sean had put on that gorgeous smile he brought out for the photographers and Craig knew he was about to shrug and walk away, so he blurted out, "I'd love to! I mean, tomorrow? Or even later tonight? It's just dinner and I don't imagine it'll take very long, so...."

He trailed off and barely managed to keep himself from wincing. Actually, what he wanted to do was crawl off behind the tree. Or under one of the craft services tables by the wall -- they all had long tablecloths and he could probably hide there for a while.

What the hell had he been thinking? Scratch that -- he obviously _hadn't_ been thinking, which was the whole problem because if he'd had his brain engaged he wouldn't have blurted out that absolutely pathetic plea for attention. Tomorrow? Tonight? A quick one in the bog right now? Whatever you want, Sean, whenever's convenient for you!

But then Sean said, "Well, I wouldn't want you to have to rush or nothing," and Craig's eyes refocused and he saw that the photographer's smile had morphed into something with real humor in it. "You go take care of your fans and we'll likely see one another around." He turned and strolled off toward where Cate and Marton were chatting about something, Cate gesturing with a donut. Just as Sean stepped up beside them, a wardrobe assistant rushed up to brush at Galadriel's gown; Craig could hear the scolding thread twine with the laughing conversation, although he couldn't make out what they were discussing.

Not him, at least. Although they might be soon enough, depending on how funny Sean had thought his scrambling and babbling and fawning had been.

Craig wanted to knock his forehead against the trunk of his Mallorn tree, and would have if makeup hadn't threatened him about deliberately messing up his face. There'd been a comment about how _this_ movie wasn't about disintegrating zombies, no matter who was directing; the image of hundreds of zombie Elves lurching through the enchanted forest, scattering chunks and shreds of flesh and skin, had branded itself into his brain and he'd never forgotten. There'd also been a mental picture of Aragorn with a lawnmower....

Maybe if the films did well, some fans would come up with a bit along those lines, sort of an homage to PJ's earlier movies?

The idea was enough to make him smile, but not quite distracting enough to keep him from wondering just how upset Sean might've been, or whether Craig might find another crushed bouquet on his porch that evening.

 

The Langham Pub wasn't terribly old -- the building was older than Craig but the pub as a business had only been around twenty-some years. Long enough to be settled into the neighborhood, with a nice crowd of regulars and enough scruff on the furnishings and fittings to make it feel comfortable. Craig liked it for the rough, casual atmosphere as well as the excellent food.

He'd never been there with Toby before, but he'd met the man a few other times over the years since meeting at a Hercules and Xena convention. They'd ended up propping up a stretch of hallway outside the dead dog party for a few hours, telling jokes and talking about the industry.

Toby was an average looking bloke, about Craig's age, with sandy blond hair and brown eyes and a friendly, round face. Craig didn't think of them as terribly close, or great friends or anything, but they'd had fun together a few times, whenever they'd found themselves at the same convention or other fannish meet-up.

Craig was about halfway through a perfectly pink rib-eye steak when the conversation, which had mainly veered between funny stories from the Rings set and some of the weirder e-mails Toby got through the fan club web site, gave him an ideal opening. Toby had just finished telling him about a young woman who'd asked him, in all apparent seriousness, whether he could approach Craig about donating sperm so she could have his children.

They'd both laughed at that -- because really, what else could you do? -- but then Craig said, "Actually, in all seriousness? If you have some way of finding out who she is, I'd be grateful."

Toby choked on a mouthful of potato and scrabbled around with both hands for his beer to wash it down, spluttering and hacking throughout the process. Craig babbled apologies, his hands twitching in reflexive search of something helpful to do, but since Toby wasn't actually turning blue, Craig thought getting up and moving over to the other side of the booth to pound on the man's back might be excessive.

When he was finally breathing again without further difficulties, Toby said, "You're not seriously thinking of taking her up on it, are you?" with a tone of incredulity that let Craig imagine pretty clearly what Toby was thinking of him.

"No, no! It's nothing like that. I'm sorry, I should have... I don't know, said it differently." Craig sighed and rested his head back on the padded bench seat, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. "No, I'm not quite ready for children yet, and if I ever am, it won't be... well, not like that.

"I've been having some problems lately, though. Just little strange things, and I was wondering whether it might be an... an over-enthusiastic fan, you know?"

Toby scowled and sat up straight, fairly radiating indignation. "Is some arsewipe harassing you?"

"Not really." Craig gave a quick head-shake, not wanting to make it all out to be more than it was. "I mean, no one's actually gotten in my face or done anything really dangerous or, or damaged anything or like that. But I got this bunch of roses the other day. Expensive bouquet, and anonymous. I didn't wonder all that much about it, at least not in a bad way. There were a few people it might've been, although no one owned up to it." Craig gave a short, dismissive wave of his fork to show that he hadn't gotten all hysterical right off.

"Then that same night I got home, fairly late it was, and there was another bunch of roses on my porch, this time scattered and ruined, as though someone had stomped on them. The first was just a bit odd, but the second -- that's the sort of thing crazies do in movies, right before they break in with a hatchet, you know?"

Toby nodded, still frowning. "So, what, you think it might be this girl who wants to have your babies?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Craig shrugged. He felt frustrated and helpless and had no idea what to think, just a lot of fuzzy ideas and vague maybes. "Maybe her, or maybe someone else like her? Is there anyone else that you know of who's been behaving a bit oddly? Maybe... I don't know, maybe seems to be a little _too_ focused on me?" He felt himself blushing even while he asked. Just being able to vocalize that sort of question made him sound like he had an enormous ego, but he wasn't just imagining things. Still, it sounded horrible to have the words right out there between them like that.

"Maybe," Toby echoed. "It's hard to really point a finger at anyone, though. It's just...." He squirmed a bit and looked down at his plate. "A certain amount of crazy is _normal,_ you know? There's a reason 'fan' is short for 'fanatic.'"

"Well, true, but aren't there _degrees_ of crazy?" Craig laughed, he couldn't help himself. The whole conversation was crazy, except it really wasn't.

"Of course, but someone who's really obsessed is more likely to... to carve your name in their arm with a box cutter or something. Someone like that might not behave any more crazy than someone who's been sending you crushed roses, even if the rose bloke is getting ready to break into your house with the duct tape and chloroform. Past a certain point it's all just crazy, yeah?"

"Wow, thanks so much for that image. I'm sure it'll follow me into my dreams tonight." Craig glared across the table and took a savage bite out of his garlic bread.

"Sorry." Toby spread his hands and shrugged. "You're the one who mentioned the hatchet -- at least _my_ movie-style crazy is only a kidnapper."

 

By the time Craig got home it was almost one. He and Toby had kept chatting over their dinners and taken a comfortably long while to finish, then had dessert. They were the last ones out of the restaurant, with the staff hurrying to finish tidying up behind them, and had walked up a couple of blocks to an all-night coffee shop Craig knew of which had excellent coffee no matter what time of the day or night one went.

He hadn't heard anything from Sean since the sort-of almost request for a kind-of date, so Craig had put it out of his mind and just spent an evening relaxing with Toby, who was a decent young man and fun to talk to, in an enthusiastically nerdy way.

So when Craig climbed the concrete steps up to his porch in the dark with Toby's "See you again soon!" and his own, "Definitely, thanks!" still fading from his mind, and then spotted the glitter of a nearby streetlamp on a cut glass vase of flowers, he felt his stomach drop. And when a low voice came out of the darkness and said, "Like roses, do you?" Craig startled so badly he stumbled backward and pitched arse-first down those same concrete steps. He felt a thud-ka-krack! as he landed -- tailbone-shoulders-skull, and then nothing.

 

Craig woke up what must've been just a few moments later. A dark figure blotted out the stars overhead, and a low voice said, "There ya are. I was about to call for an ambulance. How are you feeling?"

The front walk was pressing into every aching bit of Craig's body, probably because slamming into it had been what'd caused all the aches. He tried to sit up, then moaned and fell back. And swift hand under his head kept him from knocking himself silly again.

"Easy there, don't try to move yet." The hand stayed under his head, and another pressed lightly on his chest, reinforcing the spoken command.

The low, rich voice flowed through Craig's brain and a face drifted up to match it. "Sean?"

"Aye, unless you had someone else coming to meet you after dinner? Should I be looking for a queue, then?"

Sean's voice carried a thread of tease in it, but Craig felt his shoulders hunching in embarassment anyway. He'd honestly thought it wasn't... well, they hadn't _said_ anything after, so he hadn't thought... well, that was it, wasn't it? He hadn't really thought.

"I'm sorry," Craig said. It came out a breathy gasp and he swallowed hard.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Or if there is, I likely got you back well enough by scaring you down the steps, yeah?" Sean smirked down at him, then hooked a hand under his shoulder. "Come on, then, let's get you inside. I don't think a pub would be a smart notion, what with this knot growing on your skull, but you can make me some coffee."

Craig was sloshing with coffee but wasn't about to say so. He let Sean lever him up and gave himself permission to lean as much as he needed to on the way up the steps, and maybe a little more just because it _was_ Sean's solid, warm body under his arm and pressed against his side and how often was that likely to happen?

At the doorstep, Sean leaned down and grabbed the cut glass vase of roses, then thrust it into Craig's hand. Craig clamped it against his front with one awkward arm, then yelped when Sean shoved a big hand into Craig's front trouser pocket and fished around.

"Keys?"

"Oh! Umm, other side--" Craig skidded to a vocal halt and struggled to keep from flushing, although judging by the heat in his cheeks he was failing fairly miserably. The hand reached across and vanished into his other pocket and Craig's struggle for control shifted from one autonomic system to a slightly different one, rather lower in his body.

Sean got the door open and hauled Craig inside. He looked around and Craig gave the place a frantic look-over himself. There were some newspapers in a messy pile on the floor, and a jacket tossed over the back of his favorite chair, and the coffee table was covered with mail he hadn't gotten around to opening in however long it'd been.

No dirty cups or glasses, no pizza boxes, no orange peels -- good enough.

Craig steered Sean to the dining table and made himself let go of Sean's waist and settle into a chair. Despite what Sean had said earlier about Craig making him coffee, he set the vase down next to Craig, then headed into the kitchen and set up the pot. 

"So, like flowers, then?"

Craig's head jerked up, then hit him with a tight flash of pain. "Uhh, what?"

He saw Sean shrug. The shirt tightening over Sean's lifting shoulders distracted Craig for a moment, before Sean said, "Just noticed you'd been getting flowers lately. Bunch on set the other day, then that bunch there on your doorstep."

"It wasn't you?" Craig asked, before he could stop himself.

"Me?" Sean stopped and looked around at him with a scowl. "What, did someone sign my name to 'em?"

"No! I mean, no, no one signed them at all. The cards were all blank. And there were more. It's just...." Every word Craig said felt like it was digging him deeper and he couldn't figure out how to explain what'd been going on. "It's been strange, and I've been trying to figure out who'd sent them."

Sean chuckled and turned back to the coffee. "Sounds like someone's shy," he said over his shoulder. "It's kinda cute."

"It's _not_ cute!" Craig snapped. "It's been nerve-wracking and I wish whoever it is would just own up to it or get the hell out of my life!"

The coffee pot started coughing and bubbling. Sean turned around and leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossed his arms over his chest and gave Craig a neutral look. "But you thought it was me?"

The unspoken question, "And you want me to get the hell out of your life?" rang through Craig's brain as clearly as though Sean had asked it out loud.

"No! I mean--" Craig cut himself off and took a breath. His head was still aching and his thoughts faded and twisted and refused to line up in orderly, comprehensible rows. If he just kept babbling, Sean was going to think he was cracked, whether he was actually offended or not. If Craig was going to be dancing on the edge of this particular cliff then there was no reason not to go all the way, was there?

"I didn't know who it was," he said. He forced himself to meet Sean's eyes and lay it all out. "You were a possibility but that was more hope than anything else, right at the beginning, when I still thought it was just someone who was interested, some normal person. Then it got creepy and frightening and while you do a marvelous job _playing_ creepy and frightening men, I didn't actually believe it was you anymore, not truly. Or maybe I was just hoping again, because even if you'd slipped a gear, you're still someone I know and that's not as scary as the idea that some insane, obsessed stranger is out there sharpening a knife and buying duct tape and chuckling over how frightened I've been.

"But yes, in the beginning, when it was just some beautiful roses sent to my trailer with no note, I was imagining and wondering and I did hope it was you. Because you're a wonderfully attractive man and I'd love to think you might be interested."

Craig wound down to a stop, unsure whether to go on about the scary part. Because the whole, "Yes, I do like you" bit was important right now, between them, but the whole "Crazed Stalker" bit was more important to the bigger picture and the scene should properly end on the more vital point.

Sean, who'd opened his mouth about halfway through but not said anything, watched Craig for a few moments after he'd stopped, closed his mouth, then opened it again and said, "Wait, what's scary about someone sending you flowers?"

"When they deliver them to your door, proving they know where you live, and stomp them to pieces right on your porch, suggesting hostility." Craig folded his arms on the table and buried his face. Of course _Sean_ wouldn't think it was scary. To tell the truth, most people probably wouldn't. Hearing himself say it like that, Craig himself had thought it sounded rather silly; if he'd heard from someone else that crushed flowers had actually frightened them, he'd have been hard pressed not to at least grin.

It was so unreal. It wasn't something that happened to real people, or people one knew.

He heard chair legs scraping across the floor and looked up to see Sean settling down across the corner from him at the table.

"So, what all happened, then?" Sean asked. "You don't seem the sort to be thrown into a tizzy over a bunch of flowers."

Craig sighed again and looked away from Sean, staring at the blank wall. "I know it's ridiculous. It's just... I've never had anything like this happen to me before. Some of the fans are a bit odd, but they've always been basically nice people, you know? A few don't have the best social skills, but they mean well and they like me and I've never had to even _think_ about being afraid of them before. I thought I was going a bit off on it but I talked to Viggo about it and he agreed that it could be something serious."

Sean sat up straight and raised an eyebrow. "Wait, you talked to Viggo about this? When?"

"The next day. The day after I got the first two -- the one bunch delivered to the trailer, then we went out and the second bunch was crushed all over my doorstep when I got home after. I didn't sleep very well that night and Viggo noticed the next day. He asked and we talked about it."

"So you got the stomped flowers _before_ you talked to Viggo about it? You're sure about that?" Sean's voice was sharp and Craig couldn't figure out what he was getting at.

"Yes, I'm sure. Why, what difference does it make?"

"Huh. Maybe nothing." Sean eyed him for a second, then said, "Did you know Viggo was going to suggest I come over tonight?"

"He--? What? No!" Craig groaned and wanted to hide his face again. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea he was going to... I don't know, I suppose he's trying to help but.... Bugger."

"He's an interfering git, yeah, but he means well." Sean's voice was low and rumbling, but he sounded amused and Craig felt his hopes poke their heads out of hiding, just a tiny bit. "What _I_ think," Sean continued, grinning at Craig as though inviting him to share the funny, "is that he got some notion into his head of playing matchmaker. I wouldn't put it past him to do the flower-stomping himself, or talk someone else into doing it for him, but even without that, I think he pounced on it and decided to use it.

"Look, I know this sort of rubbish happens, but hardly ever outside of movies and shows on the telly, you know? I mean, sure, some of the fans will send us some really whacked stuff, but you just ignore it and go on with things and nothing comes of it. I think Viggo decided to give us a nudge, so he gave you some encouragement and maybe arranged for a few more 'incidents.'" Sean tapped a finger on the glass vase in the center of the table. Craig stared at it and thought.

His thoughts were flexing and stretching and reshaping themselves, trying to accommodate the idea that it'd all been just... what? A prank? Not a prank, unless there were Hobbits with cameras lurking in the bushes, waiting for him or Sean to do something they could be teased about for the rest of the shoot. But some sort of scheme to get them together?

Talk about a movie plot! Craig thought. He winced, and could feel his cheeks heating again. This is like a really bad comedy and isn't likely to end with a kiss and a fade.

"So... do you think there was _ever_ anyone else involved? The first two bouquets -- was that ever anyone else or was it just Viggo being... whatever he was being?"

"Don't know," Sean said with a shrug. "Might've been him, might not." Sean grinned at him and Craig felt his bones start to melt as Sean said, "You been doing anything that might've given him any ideas? Eyein' me up behind me back, maybe?"

"Umm...." Craig bit his lip and looked away, torn between fleeing and flirting. He settled for laughing instead.

Sean said, "Well, maybe we'll have to think of something to get him back, then." He was eyeing Craig up, maybe making up for lost time or finally sure it'd be welcome or whatever, Craig couldn't tell and didn't have enough functional brain cells to think about it because that particular hot, predatory smile on Sean's face had always been enough to make his stomach flip over and his heart start beating and his breath catch in his throat, and experiencing it in person, when he knew for a fact that it was actually aimed _at him,_ rather than some random actress in a scene, multiplied the effects by about, oh, forty-some times.

Not that he was complaining or anything.

He thought of something else then which hit him like a board to the back of the head and he groaned out loud. When Sean asked, "What now?" Craig closed his eyes and said, "Viggo suggested I talk to Toby about this, see if he'd heard or seen anything odd from the fan club members -- in case one of them might be the... the stalker or whatever."

"That's the lad you had dinner with, yeah? Did he have any ideas?"

"No, nothing specific. I mean, there are always a few odd ones in any group of fans, you know? But nothing had really stood out as unusual."

"Well, there you go then," Sean said with a satisfied nod.

"But that's the point!" Craig closed his eyes and rubbed them with one hand, as though trying to wipe out the images in his head. "I _talked_ to Toby about it! I told him about the flowers and said I was afraid someone might be working up toward, toward violence or, or something and if it's all just Viggo and Billy and the Hobbits and whoever else playing some sort of a joke or working on a scheme or whatever they're doing, then it's all nothing and Toby probably thinks I'm _insane_ by now! I can't believe I made such an idiot of myself in front of him!"

"We'll definitely do something back at him, then," Sean said with an agressive nod. "I'm sure we can think of something appropriately wicked -- bet you could even get Orlando and Hugo to help, make it the Elves against the Filthy Human sort of thing." He scootched his chair over nearer to Craig's and added, "But that's for later. Right now we have more important things to think about." And then he reached over and clasped one hand around the nape of Craig's neck, pulled him close and kissed him hard.

Craig was more than willing to forget Viggo and any possible scheming, well meant or not, so long as Sean was doing delightfully dizzying things with his mouth and his hands.

Sean hauled Craig out of his seat and across onto his own. Craig ended up straddling Sean's lap and being kissed breathless. Sean tipped him backward slightly and Craig flailed to find his balance, but Sean broke the kiss just long enough to growl, "Leave it."

His arms tightened around Craig in emphasis. Craig got the message but couldn't help himself -- he looped his arms around Sean's neck and hung on, pressing their bodies together and pulling up close for another kiss.

"Nah, not like that." Sean's voice was low and rough and Craig could feel it resonate through their tight-pressed chests. Sean unwound Craig's arms from him, then pinned both of Craig's wrists behind his back with one hand at waist level, while the other looped around Craig's shoulders. He slowly leaned Craig backwards, their eyes locked.

Craig fought against the panic that told him was going to fall and crack his head again, pushed it down and away. Sean's arms were solid and his expression was serious, searching -- Craig could feel that Sean was watching his response, waiting for something.

Trust. That's what he wanted.

Craig had voiced his doubts earlier, and even though he'd assured Sean that he hadn't _really_ thought it was him, that he hadn't _really_ believed that Sean was some crazed stalker with an unhealthy obsession and a supply of duct tape, the thought had still been there, close enough to the surface of Craig's thoughts that it'd been voiced, when it could just as easily have been ignored.

Well, maybe not _easily._ Because it _had_ been there, and the memory of the feeling, that flutter of fear that it just might be Sean -- that was still there, floating around Craig's mind.

So maybe _he_ needed this too, to prove something to himself, and not just to Sean.

Craig kept his gaze focused on Sean's eyes and relaxed into his arms.

One corner of Sean's mouth quirked in a smile. He leaned out farther, until Craig was lying flat, parallel to the floor, supported only by Sean's solid lap and Sean's strong arms, then kept leaning down and kissed him again.

This one was slower, less a conquering attack and more an exploration of claimed territory.

Sean's hands loosened from around Craig's wrists. Craig slid them up once more, but not to hang on. Instead they rose slowly, kneading their way up Sean's sides and shoulders, then up the back of his neck to bury themselves in his hair, stroking and caressing, still letting Sean do all the work of supporting him. Because Sean would never let him fall; Craig _knew_ that down to his core.

And just then, something solid and heavy crashed down on Craig's hands and Sean's head and Craig fell and hit the floor along with a shower of roses, then was hit again a millisecond later when Sean's limp body landed on top of him. Craig felt an explosion in his already-tender skull and then the world faded away.

 

After some unknowable time, Craig woke up with a dull, throbbing ache in the back of his head. He opened his eyes and saw a shadowy blur that he thought was the ceiling; turning his head made his stomach twist and threaten to heave, so he closed his eyes again and swallowed hard.

The thought occurred to him that he should be on the floor, or at least that he _had_ been on the linoleum. He wasn't, though -- he was lying on something sort of soft, or at least moreso than the floor. It had a corner and a padded side.

The couch. He was on the couch, with the padded back on his right side and a cushion under his head, propped against one arm.

He opened his eyes again, carefully this time, and looked around as well as he could without actually moving more than his eyeballs. Right -- ceiling, tops of walls, corner, spider web, top of window with... no, without curtain. There was supposed to be a curtain there, on the window looking out on the back garden.

A low, muffled noise drew his attention across the room. Craig turned his head again without thinking, and this time it wasn't quite so bad; he only felt dizzy for a few moments, and his stomach protested but didn't threaten any serious rebellion.

He had to blink into the shadows on the floor near the television, but then the long, lumpy shape resolved itself into Sean -- Sean, who'd been wrapped up in something bright orange -- a moment later Craig recognized a heavy duty extension cord that'd been in the utility closet -- and gagged with a piece of the missing curtain.

Sean's shoulders and legs jerked, pulling against the cord tied around him, and his face was a harsh mask of anger and worry. His eyes swiveled back and forth between Craig and a spot to his left, toward the middle of the room. Obviously there was something there, and Craig, even with his brains scrambled from his second head-bashing of the night, had a feeling he knew what it was.

He got an elbow under him and carefully rotated until he was up on one shoulder. Sure enough, there was someone leaning against the wall watching him.

"Toby...?" It was a stupid question, maybe, but Craig just had to ask, "What are you doing here?"

"You knew I'd be coming," Toby said, his voice flat and toneless. "We said we'd see each other soon. I ran home to get some stuff and came here to your place, figuring you'd be waiting up for me. Your lights were on and all so I came in -- the door was open and everything."

Craig said, "Umm...?" All he could do was stare while his thoughts raced, from It was him! to He's insane! to He's going to kill us both! to He's president of my fan club!

While Craig was trying to figure out which way was up, Toby came across the room and looked down at him, his expression still calm and blank. "You were waiting for me," he said. "I came in and _that_ bastard over there was mauling all over you." He gave Sean a contemptuous gesture and a quick glare, the first emotion he'd shown since Craig had noticed him. "It's lucky I came in when I did," he went on, "or who knows what he would've done."

He's crazed, Craig thought. He thought Sean was--? Did he think _we_ were going to be doing... anything? And he's just assuming that I was waiting for him and Sean came in and, what, and attacked me...?

A hard lump lodged in Craig's throat and his heart pounded hard, speeding toward panic. All he could think was to go along and wait for an opportunity.

"Of course," he said. "He got the jump on me and I don't know what I could've done if you hadn't come in." Craig swallowed hard and didn't look at Sean, _couldn't_ look at Sean. All he could do was hope Sean caught on, and hope Toby didn't. He sucked in a hard breath and pushed himself up with one arm until he was sitting, then levered up to his feet. He had to lean on the arm of the couch, but he made it, only teetering a little. The throbbing in his head and the griping of his stomach he just ignored; he needed to focus on Toby, who hadn't stepped back and stood staring at him from barely a handspan away.

Toby took a half step closer, pressing his body up against Craig's. He raised one hand and stroked gently down Craig's cheek, then murmured, "I was here for you."

"Yes, you were." Craig concentrated on looking into Toby's eyes and even managed a tight smile.

"So let's get rid of the fucker," Toby went on, "and then get back to you and me."

"Umm, wait, get rid of?" Craig took a step back, then stopped, his hands clenched tight. "We can't, I mean, jail, not worth it, nothing happened so we'll just--"

"Just call the police." Toby interrupted him and looked around.

For a phone? Now what? "No, wait!" Craig blurted. "I mean, we can't! The films, PJ, it'd be bad publicity and it'd hurt everyone and that's not right, especially when nothing happened, not really. You came in time and I'm fine, nothing happened, nothing bad, so there's really nothing to say. It's not like he assaulted me, not really, there aren't any marks or anything, no evidence, it'd be my word against his so it'd all be for nothing but the papers would get hold of it anyway and it'd blow up for nothing--" Craig just kept talking, his hands moving of their own volition to Toby's shoulders, stroking his arms -- smooth, calming motions while Craig himself got more and more tense and panic frothed up inside him again. "Let's just throw him out, let him go home and, and lick his wounds, right? You got him a good one and he'll think twice before trying anything like that again, and you and I can get back to-- to kicking back and-- and finish our evening together, right?"

Toby grinned at him, wrapped his arms around Craig and gave him a tight hug, then fisted one hand in his hair and jerked his head back.

"You are so full of shit." Toby gave Craig's head a brain-rattling jerk, then shoved him back down onto the couch. It didn't take much of a push and Craig collapsed onto the cushions. Even that light jolt sent his stomach and head pounding protest through his body, while the room spun in dizzy swirls.

"You might as well have 'Humoring the Crazy' tattooed on your forehead," Toby sneered. "Did you think I was actually _interested_ in you? Do I look gay to you?"

How the hell was anyone supposed to answer that question? Craig didn't know and didn't try. Luckily he didn't need to because Toby kept on ranting.

"What, did you think you were Brad Pitt, that everyone was throwing themself at you? Messing around with your little fan club like some kind of movie star, always posting and chatting and sending notes and signing anything you can get your hands on like some desperate attention whore, every opportunity you could grab or create or imagine to remind your adoring fans that they were supposed to be worshipping your wonderfulness!"

Craig just lay there, sprawled on the couch, staring and listening and trying to figure out what was going on because none of it made any sense at all.

Was it true? Did he impose on his fans, expecting them to flock around him, all admiring? He remembered Sean's words -- _"You_ have a fan club?" -- as though he were surprised. Shocked, even. Was it really that surprising?

"--they're all stupid too!"

Toby had kept going, apparently too wrapped up in his explosion after a build-up of pressure for... how many years? He'd been president of Craig's fan club since the beginning, over four years.

"Flocking around like you were some kind of super-celebrity. Bad enough the girls, but the blokes too, like they had some kind of special status because they hung out on a web site where Craig Parker Himself posts messages! Lah-di-dah for them!"

"Why?" Craig blurted, as soon as Toby stopped for a breath. "If you hate me so much, why? You started the club -- why do that if you're not a fan and don't care?"

Toby snorted. "It was a joke! I found some pictures of you and a couple of girls had commented all squealing and it was such shite! So I put up the web page to make fun of all the idiots who thought you were such hot stuff and they came and started squealing _there!_ So I put in the forums and e-mailed you and of _course_ you came dashing over to take your bows and show off for your little flock!

"It all just built after that and it was so ridiculous, I kept going. I wanted to see how far it'd go, how far they'd go, how far _you'd_ go, and the answer was clear off the edge of the cliff and farther and none of you ever noticed how insane it all was!"

Craig had no idea how he felt. He was empty, like a wrung-out sponge, searching for a feeling -- any feeling -- to fill him up again. He just looked at Toby, at the cocky stance and scornful expression, and finally said, "So now what? Fine, you did it, you proved you could manipulate a few hundred people. Now what happens?"

Toby opened his mouth slightly, then stopped. Craig got the impression he hadn't thought that far.

"You figure it out," Craig said, then hauled himself back up to his feet and moved over to Sean. He had the gag out and the knot in the extension cord most of the way undone before Toby reacted.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, grabbing Craig's shoulder and yanking him away. "I didn't say you could let him go."

Craig fell back on one elbow, but fought the dizziness and nausea and struggled back up to his knees. He shoved Toby hard in the stomach, not doing any damage but enough to make him take a step back, and said, "I don't care what you think and don't need your permission."

Sean flailed and jerked around, struggling out of the loosened cord. "You get the fuck out of his house," he snarled, his voice still dry and hoarse from the gag. Even from a meter lower, Craig could see Sean's green eyes were blazing anger and his fists were trembling with a need to pound on someone.

"Or what?" Toby said, still sneering.

Obviously getting the drop on Sean once had given him some courage. Craig was pretty sure it was misplaced, but didn't really care at that point so long as he didn't end up with blood stains anywhere permanent.

The cord finally fell in a heap at Sean's feet and he strode right up into Toby's face, backing him up into the wall without even touching him. "Or I pay you back for the knot on m'head, then we call the cops and have your lying arse hauled away."

Craig couldn't see Toby, but he could hear both the fear and the bravado in his voice when he said, "You won't call the police, 'cause telling the story would mean it getting out that you and the pansy-boy over there were practically fucking when I got here."

"You mean when you tresspassed and then assaulted us?" Sean purred. Craig could picture that nasty smile from a few villains Sean had brought so perfectly to life. "After scheming for years to get close to Craig? I think two against one means yer a lyin' sacka shite who's making a desperate attempt to stay out of jail."

Another pause. Craig wondered whether Toby was swallowing hard or just concentrating on keeping a straight face. Since Sean seemed to have chosen their path, Craig went to find the phone and hoped Sean wasn't bluffing.

When he came back with the phone, Toby'd found his courage and was snapping back at Sean, "--tough-guy roles if they know you're a cocksucker? What, you think I'm stupid or something?"

Damn bully, Craig thought, and stepped in to put an end to it. "I don't know what Sean thinks, but I _know_ you're stupid," he said, deliberately making his voice hard and impatient. "I'm out, and I don't care what other lies you spread. I'm calling the police right now--" he punched buttons on the phone while speaking, "--and I think our injuries, including marks from when you tied Sean up, will ensure that we're believed, not you. Obivously you're just a crazy stalker fan who took it too far and is now desperate to bargain your way out--"

He cut himself off when the operator answered, then turned his attention to the phone. "Yes, a man came into my house and assaulted me and a guest. I need the police immediately." He paused, then said, "Thanks, an ambulance is probably a good idea too -- I've been dizzy since I woke up, and I don't know how my friend is feeling." Another pause. "Oh, yes, he's still here."

Toby made a panicked noise and tried to bolt across the room, but Sean grabbed him by one arm and levered him ungently onto the floor. "You stay right there. You started this mess, you can see it through."

 

It was nearly dawn by the time the various people in uniform had all left and Craig was alone with Sean once more. Neither of them had needed bandages, but Craig had been given a shot for the dizziness, and instructions to see his own physician the next day to follow up on the concussion.

Craig closed the door, walked over to Sean and let himself fall forward onto Sean's chest. Sean's arms came up around him and held him close.

"So," Sean murmured, his voice low and teasing, "where were we, then?"

Craig had to giggle, he couldn't help it. He hugged Sean back and said, "I think you were kissing me silly. Although are you sure you want to waste your time, now that you know I'm not such a big fish after all, even in this small pond?"

He was mostly joking, but not completely. He was still somewhat boggled by what'd happened and why, and he was trying to rearrange his own perception of who he was to his fans, as an actor and a man.

"I think your pond is just fine, and most of the fish in it. That one diseased bottom-feeder doesn't change anything. All your other fans in your club still love you, right?"

"I... I don't know. Maybe? I thought Toby 'loved' me and see what that got me."

"He was whacked," Sean said with a dismissive shrug. "I think the fact that he seemed to hate all the other fans in your club as much as he hated _you_ says that they're likely to be decent enough folks. And they certainly have good taste."

Craig couldn't help blushing at that, but it wasn't enough to drive away the shadows. He focused on Sean -- the solid feel of him, the warmth of his body, the sexy scent in the crook of his throat just beneath his ear where Craig's nose was brushing. Sean, who was still here even after all the mess and chaos and getting coshed on the head, when anyone else would've taken advantage of the ready-made excuse to go home to bed with a handful of paracetamol.

He sifted one hand very gently through the soft hair at the back of Sean's head, careful not to press against the swelling. "I have paracetamol," he whispered. "And I have a nice big bed. How about if we start there, and then see what the rest of the day brings later, when we're both feeling more ourselves?"

"I think that's a right fine idea," Sean murmured back.

The rest of the day turned out just fine.


End file.
